


Lamentation

by confettiinmyhair



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Divergence - End!Verse, Drunk Sex, End!verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confettiinmyhair/pseuds/confettiinmyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For someone who has been out of this fandom for half a decade, I'm sure writing a lot of weird smut for it lately, aren't I?</p>
<p>At any rate, I can always be found <a href="http://hoverboardbandit.tumblr.com">here on tumblr</a>.</p></blockquote>





	Lamentation

Something had been Off when Chuck woke up that morning. Something had changed in the night, even if he couldn't quite put a finger on _what_. Something was both quieter and altogether more frantic about the background noise of the Heavenly Host in his mind.   
  
'Lamentation' might not have been hyperbole.  
  
Well, the Heavenly Host could get in line. Life itself was getting to be a bit of a lamentation.  
  
*  
  
It was past lunch when the sensation became nagging.  
  
It was nearly sundown when it grew half-unbearable, and he finally slapped his laptop shut in irritation.  
He gave himself a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, taking some steadying deep breaths... throwing the machine across the room wasn't going to help anything.  
  
Drinking had never done much to mute the noise, but it made handling an ethereal overload just a little more bearable.  
  
*  
  
The brothers had argued the prior afternoon. Chuck hadn't asked what about, but these days, you really didn't need to.  
  
The vices and virtues of finally agreeing to the demands of one archangel or other was a frequent topic, and he'd learned to let them bicker it out, blow off the tension, rather than try and get in the middle of it.   
  
On the one hand, it was Sam who'd taken off after the shouting died down, rather than Dean. It was Sam they hadn't seen hide nor hair of until after breakfast, who'd shown back up without a word of explanation but a simple apology for losing his temper.  
  
Typical, that Sam would be the easy, gentler one when the dust had settled.  
  
What wasn't typical was that when Chuck wandered into the bar a few blocks from the hotel they were holing up in, he found not just Dean (typical) but Sam as well (not typical - and certainly not one to be keeping up with his brother on the shots).   
  
And they'd noticed him, invited him over, even offered to pick up his tab.  
  
Well.  
  
Far be it from him to spoil the mood of camaraderie that came from the apparent burying of a hatchet, right? 

* 

It was well on past midnight when he was trying to stumble back to the hotel, Sam shuffling on along next to him, insisting, _insisting_ , that he see Chuck back safely. He was slurring along to the little tune that Chuck was humming to himself, the air was warm, and for the first time in weeks, Chuck felt well and properly disconnected from himself.  
  
That was the wonderful part about these human forms - all the Grace in the universe couldn't do too much to speed along the metabolization of alcohol, even if he could handle more than was strictly humanly plausible.  
  
Frankly, he was concentrating so closely on the dampened edges of his Grace, on the relative silence in his head, on the warmth in his sternum, that he couldn't quite remember having walked inside, having come across the lobby or up the stairs.  
  
Sam was helping him with the room door - two tries, three - and when had Sam gotten the key from him, anyhow? Chuck made it all of two steps in before stumbled over his own feet, inadvertently taking Sam down with him. As the door closed behind them.  
  
It took a very long moment for Chuck to recover from having the wind knocked out of him – it certainly didn't help that Sam had landed _on_ him.  
  
"This isn't even my _room_ , man," Chuck managed to giggle out, one eye closed to focus on a duffel bag up on the dresser that was not his own... were there two beds? He didn't think he was imagining that.  
  
"Yeah, I… you said, take you back, I thought-"  
  
"I said you didn't _have_ to take me back. That's all your idea."  
  
Sam was not helping him up from the heap they were in, though. There was only a slow breath, two, three, while he took in the reality of being caged in by Sam's too-long limbs.  
  
Who kissed who? Difficult to say, really.  
  
Difficult for Chuck to care, frankly, once Sam's hands were on his forearms, pinning him, so that all Chuck could do was make a valiant effort to arch up against the delightfully solid press of Sam's body over his.  
  
That control didn't last particularly long, though. They were half-rolling, pawing at each other's clothes in a haze, and Chuck managed to get them turned over. He was hard already - if he could tell anything worth a damn, they both were - and it was a giddy thrill just to grind down a little, groaning into their clumsy little kisses.  
  
And of course, of _course_ , neither of them were thinking.  
  
Of _course_ it was just as Sam had Chuck's jeans open, the back bunched down along with his boxers, Sam's stupidly-thick fingers (spit-slick from Chuck's mouth) pressing down the center of Chuck's ass, that they both heard the wavering, "uh - the _fuck_ " from the proximity of the door.  
  
Chuck had frankly had too goddamn much to drink to consider feeling embarrassed.  
  
"Get in or _leave_ ," he groused, felt Sam's rough laugh under him.  
  
*  
  
Maybe he'd ask later why Dean didn't balk, why he didn't skip more of a beat. Maybe not. Maybe sometimes, things just _happened_.  
  
In any case, the door was shut, and there was movement behind him as he and Sam leaned back into each other.  
  
Dean's hands were on him, tugging his clothes properly _off_ , dragging his jeans and underwear the rest of the way down his legs, Sam's hands falling away for just a moment. Chuck couldn't even begin to contain the harsh gasp as Dean's tongue was pressing in just where Sam's fingers had been moments before.  
  
And frankly, Chuck's body could not have been moving as easily as it felt. That was the alcohol, making everything feel easier and more graceful than it could possibly have been.  
  
Not that he was complaining. After all, it was so simple, the way this vessel _felt_ after enough 80-proof liquor.  
  
It was the simplest thing that he was there, hands and knees on this dingy carpeting, some strange conduit for the brothers' reconciliation, or whatever the hell this was.  
  
It was the simplest thing to have his mouth wide open, tongue pressed flat over his bottom teeth, lips stretched around the slow thrust of Sam's cock, jaw starting to ache with it.  
  
It was the simplest thing to be arching into the grip Dean had around his hips,  to groan down in his throat as Dean's cock finally breached him, just the right kind of too-rough.  
  
Dean was vocal, verbal, predictably (deliciously) profane as he found a rhythm, where Sam seemed content just to keep a hand clutched in Chuck's hair.  
  
Chuck had (willfully, gleefully, rapturously) given himself up to just taking it all, allowing himself to be shoved and shifted and _used_. It was a thrill all its own to give over, to enjoy this for what it was, allow himself to be reduced to this kind of whimpering, moaning _need_.  
  
Sam didn't warn him, though, before he thrust in hard to the back of Chuck's throat, coming with a low groan.  
  
Chuck gagged on it, unprepared, felt the mess of it over his lips and chin as Sam pulled back, felt the involuntary prick of tears in his eyes as he gasped for air… and couldn't help but laugh at it all.  
  
Human sex was so repulsive, and here he was, come all over his face, making sounds that were too close to giving up and _begging_ for it as Dean shifted, changed angle just-so, shoved Chuck's shoulders to the floor, fucked into him all the harder.  
  
Chuck glanced up from where he was pinned, caught Sam's gaze, and felt the ground practically fall out from under himself, felt the little confusing oddities of the day all click neatly into place.  
  
  
It was only for an instant, the briefest whisper on the edges of his mind, but _he saw_.   
  
It wasn't Sam Winchester in that body. Hadn't been since sometime in the night. Hadn't been all day.   
  
It was something - some _one_ \- pretending. Someone Chuck knew all too well… and he'd _seen_ Chuck right back.   
  
Chuck was probably supposed to be angry. Disappointed, maybe. Instead, he was reveling in the sheer audacity of it. 

"Clever boy," he grinned.  

Lucifer's wide, easy smile on Sam's mouth was worth _everything_. It sparked a feeling, ancient and long-dormant... something Chuck had long since given up on. 

He reached out to grasp Lucifer's thigh, reached down to stroke his own cock with the other hand, and came with his cheek pressed to a horrible dirty-yellow motel carpet with Dean Winchester's cock buried in his ass.  
  
  
This world would burn, after all, but he would have to deal with it in the morning when he was sober enough to care. 

**Author's Note:**

> For someone who has been out of this fandom for half a decade, I'm sure writing a lot of weird smut for it lately, aren't I?
> 
> At any rate, I can always be found [here on tumblr](http://hoverboardbandit.tumblr.com).


End file.
